“Deal.” I reached out to shake on it. My hand was painfully cold. I thought I wouldn’t even register the touch of my bare fingers against his thin gloves. Instead it was an electric jolt of frissons that stole my breath more effectively than the hill had. I dropped his hand and stepped back, stumbling against the little lending library, which sent another shock through my skin. The book begged me to pluck it from the shelf and brandish it as part of our pact. I turned away.
And began to run again. Faster than we’d come up—faster than was safe on a slope this steep. But I needed space from that moment, those sensations, and the new stakes I’d added to the Avery.
Maybe Curtis felt it too, because when he caught up, he was still clenching and unclenching the hand I had shaken. “My question. You said that stuff from lunch the other day was partially because of your parents. Why?”
“They’re anti–teens dating. At least this teen; they don’t care about any others. It’s a science thing.” I hunched against the wind, angry that they were far away and absent but also suffocatingly omnipresent. How would they react to my emo email? “I don’t want to talk about it. That’s enough questions.” We had a mile left, but it could be silent. I was done covering pavement while uncovering my deepest vulnerabilities. Especially since Curtis didn’t seem to have any.
“S’okay,” he said. “How do you feel about quiz bowl questions? I have an app—it’ll read them to us.”
“Fine.”
We paused while he fished his phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. “Let me hear your buzzer noise. Mine is eee-yu, eee-yu.”
“Absolutely not. You do that again, I push you into traffic.”
“Okay, I’ll make a note that Buzzkill Gordon-Fergus is vetoing buzzer noises.” He glanced at me. “And, I’m making another mental note that nickname is DOA.”
“Good call.”
He gestured down the sidewalk, and I fell in stride beside him. Somewhere in the past few miles our paces had synched.
I beat him on eleven of the nineteen questions it took to reach his house. But we didn’t go inside. We huddled on the driveway next to my car. Me blowing on my hands, him stomping his feet. The outside lights came on from either sensors or timers, lighting up our stalling tactics. I asked, “What’s this app called?”
“Um, Quiz Me, Baby, One More Time.”
I groaned. “That sounds like something you’d make up. Where can I download it?”
“You can’t.” He shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Wink helped me code it—but I can’t distribute it because it uses questions from online databases. I don’t own those.”
It annoyed me that I was still surprised every time he proved he was smarter than I’d expected. It probably annoyed him too. “Let’s play again next run. Don’t peek ahead.”
He leaned against my car as he stretched his quad. “Please. I don’t need to cheat to win.”
“Says the guy who lost today.”
“Touché. But I have one last question—not a quiz bowl one.” He lowered his foot and met my eyes. “If you were allowed to date—would you?”
I’m sure I’d been sweating since a few minutes into our run, but that was the moment when I was suddenly aware of the perspiration sliding down the flushed skin of my neck, pooling in the small of my back. I bent over, pressing my nose toward my knees and wishing I could untangle my confused thoughts as easily as the knotted muscles of my calves. He’d asked as a hypothetical, hadn’t attached any names or pronouns—it should be easy to reject an abstract, but . . .
“Me,” he clarified, and I turned my head toward him. From upside down, I couldn’t decipher his expression, but I doubted any part of this would be clearer if I straightened. “I mean, ‘Would you date me?’ You don’t have to answer now, but think about it.”
19
Sometimes I stood under the shower and planned arguments I’d never initiate. I crafted the perfect rebuttals, designed to bring my opponent to their knees. I imagined being triumphant, smug with facts and rhetoric, while their ego lay smashed at my feet.
But then I turned the water off and left those daydreams behind the shower’s glass door.
Because some arguments you lose by winning. There were fights where I could’ve proven I was right, but what did that matter if the end cost was greater than the gain? Just look at last week’s lunch debacle.
I’d first learned that lesson at eight when things in Brazil had ended . . . badly. Our flight back to the United States had been booked last minute, and we were seated separately. My parents, shaken by the events that led to our departure, had checked on me relentlessly, regardless of whether the seat belt sign was on or off. I’d spent the flight drafting a position paper about why traveling so much was detrimental.
I’d won. They’d agreed and bought the house I now lived in. The one they jokingly referred to as “home base” or “our domicile-slash-storage-locker.” My victory was short and bitter though, because they hadn’t stayed put. It was just that the next time they’d boarded a plane, they’d left me behind.
I’d gained stability and a best friend but had lost my family.
As I showered off the perspiration and chill of my run, I crafted imaginary debates I’d never have with my parents. These twisted in my mind with Curtis’s unanswered question—and both topics swirled unresolved down the drain with my soap and sweat.
I tried to push them from my thoughts all night, through some historical movie of indeterminate time period Merri invited me to watch with her and Rory and Lilly. And I refused to think about them the next morning while I finalized the script for my first podcast episodes, then drove back up Hillcrest Road to retrieve that copy of Anne of Green Gables on my way to Merri’s parents’ store.
For expediency, Mr. Campbell and I were recording our first podcast in Haute Dog. The store was busy when I arrived, so I pulled out the book and read. It was annotated with someone else’s thoughts. Whoever had read it first had an eerie knack for knowing lines that would resonate with me. Their green-pen underlines and margin notes echoed my thoughts. And when I reached a page where they’d drawn a heart around a character’s name, my own chest constricted with affection. I put the novel down and approached the checkout counter as Mr. Campbell finished with a customer.
“How’s the book?” he asked. “If you give me a minute to grab a roll of quarters for the register, we can get started.”
“I think you might be my Matthew Cuthbert,” I blurted, then fought through a blush to add, “I don’t know if you remember him, but he’s Anne’s person. The adult who hears and appreciates her, and . . .”
“I remember.” He reached across the counter and squeezed my shoulder, then pulled his hand back to swipe at his eyes. “That’s among the nicest things that’ve ever been said to me. Thank you for letting me be your Matthew Cuthbert.”
I nodded. He nodded. That was about all the sentimentality we could handle. He nodded again and said, “Okay, I’ll get those quarters. You go ahead and set up the microphones.”
I’d gotten them from Toby. Since Christmas—since Rory—he’d become serious about his music and composing and had gone all in on fancy recording gear. I’d borrowed the bare minimum, because despite the embarrassing number of hours I’d spent planning my script, I hadn’t yet researched the technical aspects of podcasting.
Rory and Merri showed up for their shift an hour into recording. Merri happily took over customer interactions and Rory handled stockroom stuff, then sat down to draw a “pup portrait” of an English cocker spaniel named Mochi.
Two minutes later, Rory banished Merri to our side of the store for “being a distraction” to her and the dog.
“I can’t help it,” Merri whined. “He’s my current favorite doggo. Did you see him carrying around that stick? Don’t you just want to skritch his ears? He’s such a pretty boy.” She turned and called across the store, “You’re such a pretty boy, Mochi.”
“Merrilee, dangit!” Rory y
elled. “Sit, Mochi!”
Merri shrugged. “It’s not my fault he likes me better than her.”
Mr. Campbell laughed and asked me, “Do we have enough recorded? Because I’m guessing there’s about to be a Merri-Rory rumble, and we’re not going to get anything usable while that’s going down.”
“Yeah.” I could’ve kept going all night, but we had plenty. I disconnected the microphones and stacked my notes. We’d covered both CRISPR and quarks, and not only had I made him understand them, I’d made him laugh. I was giddy with the thrill of it. “We have enough to cut into two episodes. Thank you.”
“Sure.” He stood and immediately repositioned a dog toy that had been hung in the wrong spot. He and Lilly were fastidious, and I bet it had been bothering him the whole time we’d been talking. “That was fun. Let me know when you want to do another one.”
“I will. Keep me posted on your science questions.” I’d expected to feel awkward or self-conscious with a mic in my face, to be too embarrassed to ever want to listen to the playback. But it was heady, this feeling of having created something. I didn’t know if the final product would be good, but the project already felt important.
Merri hovered while I packed up equipment. Conveniently, I could leave it with Rory to return to Toby. “What are you up to tonight?” she asked. “Curtis, Lance, Hannah, and Sera are going to that new sci-fi movie, but I know how you feel about ‘fake science,’ so if you want to come bowling with Fielding and me—”
“Thanks, but that’s okay.” I appreciated her offer, but I was more interested in the first part of her statement. “What movie is it?”
“Something about aliens? Apparently Curtis is a huge fan, which by default means you’d hate it, am I right?”
No. She wasn’t. It should’ve been the perfect opportunity to tell her so, but I couldn’t find the words. How could I explain to her what I didn’t understand myself?
I felt my post-podcast smile slip as I forced out the answer she expected. “I’d totally hate it. His taste is the worst.”
It wasn’t until chapter fifteen of Green Gables that Curtis’s comments about identifying with Gilbert Blythe made sense. The first time he meets Anne, Gilbert mockingly calls her “Carrots.” I was delighted to read that she retaliated—by cracking her school slate over his head.
I put the book down and picked up my phone. Scrolling through my contacts to a certain double-C name, I sent him a text message of a single emoji: .
Since he was at the movies, I put the phone down and picked the book back up—wincing as I read about Anne’s humiliating punishment and stubborn vow to never forgive Gilbert. It seemed a pretty safe assumption that these two were not headed down a quick path to being what Anne called “kindred spirits.”
My phone beeped. “Carrots” wouldn’t be a bad nickname for you—you eat so many.
Since he wasn’t there to hear me laugh at his joke, I didn’t hesitate to do so. Then I responded with a different emoji.
My phone beeped again before I’d picked up the book. Wait. Do you want ME to call YOU “Cupcake”?
It kept beeping.
Or is that what you’re calling me?
I’m going with you calling me. Since you won’t even eat them.
Cupcake Cavendish. I like it.
If you’re giving me a sweet nickname, I guess you deserve better than a vegetable.
He’d typed five messages almost faster than I could read them. I dropped the phone onto my bedspread and pushed it away. It was one emoji. I hadn’t meant to inspire such a large response.
My phone beeped again. I poked at it with a finger before flipping it over to reveal the latest messages. Two emojis: a flame and a beetle. Firebug.
Which still made no sense, but I couldn’t handle an explanation right now.
I knew how Merri would reply—the smiley face with heart eyes. It was her favorite emoji. If I used it, Curtis would probably assume someone had stolen my phone. Anne Shirley didn’t know how lucky she’d had it, living in a time before text messages and rebus puzzle communication. I wished I could break my phone the way she’d broken her slate, so I’d have an excuse to escape this conversation.
My phone began to ring, and Curtis’s name appeared on the screen. I held it gingerly to my ear. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the movies? It’s rude to talk or text.”
“I stepped into the lobby when I got your message,” he answered. “Do you like the book?”
“I do.” I smiled down at the cover. “And I’ve been thinking about your question.”
“Oh!”
There was a fist pump attached to those two letters, I would’ve bet my favorite microscope on it. So I felt guilty when I clarified, “I don’t have an answer yet.”
“Oh.” This version was flatter, like a balloon that’s been taken from a warm room to a freezer.
“I just wanted you to know I didn’t forget. Also . . . I don’t think I’d be good at it.” I sank down on my bed, curling myself around that confession.
“Dating me?” he asked. “I’m making sure we’re on the same page. I asked lots of questions yesterday—I really don’t want us to be talking about Anne of Green Gables or the science fair right now.”
“Yeah. Just . . . any of it. I don’t know . . .” I swallowed, because those words burned. I’d been taught never to say them, or to show any ignorance. “I don’t know how to flirt. It’s playful talking. I don’t play. I never learned how.”
“Eliza . . .” He sighed.
“Don’t say my name like that!” I wound a loose piece of string from my pillowcase around my pointer finger until the tip turned purple. It was a foolish thing to do, much like participating in this conversation. “I had a good childhood. Not everyone needs to be wild and cause a ruckus.”
“Okay,” he said, but his voice was soft. I shut my eyes to picture the sleepy expression that would go with it. “But you’ve come to the right person. I’m playful enough for eight people. I’m great at wild and ruckuses. You’ve said so yourself, only you used words like ‘grow up’ and ‘indoor voice’ and ‘don’t you ever take things seriously?’”
I laughed, but he didn’t. “I’m being serious now, Firebug. I may tease you . . . but I won’t judge you.”
I didn’t have an answer to that. Maybe he thought that if he waited, I’d formulate one. Or maybe, like me, he was happy to sit silently with his head pressed against the phone, thinking about the person on the other end of the line.
“Cavendish!” Lance’s shout in the background made me jump. “What are you doing out here? Who are you talking to?”
“Don’t tell him!”
“Umm,” said Curtis. “Wink?”
I hadn’t known he was a bad liar. The idea made me smile. “I’ll talk to you later,” I said.
“Yeah. Keep thinking about that question.”
Seconds after I’d hung up—while I was sprawled on my back on my bed, fighting the urge to kick my feet in the air and squeal—my phone beeped again. Sunday, run day. Think you’re up for 6?
A second message came on its heels. 6 miles, not 6am. Let’s meet at 9.
I sent him one last emoji: a thumbs-up.
20
I yawned into the collar of my sweatshirt. If you asked my parents, they’d say I’d slept for eight hours and twenty minutes. Actigraphy wasn’t very accurate, and neither was the iLive band’s accelerometer that recorded my steps and activity—but it was the best product on the market. What my parents didn’t know was that some nights I lay in bed without moving so the band would be tricked into thinking I was asleep. While I hated the idea of skewing data, avoiding the sleep-disturbance questionnaire my parents required each time I didn’t hit eight hours was sometimes worth the deception.
They called unexpectedly while I’d been counting down the minutes until I’d meet Curtis for our nine o’clock run. The conversation had been brief and specific—and they hadn’t acknowledged the emotional email I’d sent them fr
om school on Friday.
“The Avery board says they haven’t received your registration. Are you having problems with your project?” Mom asked.
“No.”
“Then what’s the holdup?” prompted Dad.
I took a deep breath to explain about Saturday’s first recording and how I still needed an adviser, then paused. Regardless of whether or not it could win, the podcast wasn’t going to impress them. They’d disapprove of my plans for the Avery as much as they’d disapprove of my plans for the day. They wouldn’t tell me—like Mr. Campbell had—that a half-marathon was “an impressive goal. Tell me when and where—I’ll be there to cheer the loudest.” Or, “You should consider doing something with this podcast beyond the science fair. It’d be a shame if I’m the only one benefitting from your brains and patience.”
No one had ever called me “patient.” My parents didn’t consider it to be a virtue—at least not one they admired. Patience was for people whose time wasn’t valuable. My vague evasions during the phone call had dangerously tested theirs.
Finally, I’d come up with a tactic that worked. “I’m worried about the ethics of it—with you as judges. I’ve already heard whispers that I’ll get an unfair advantage. I don’t want even the perception of nepotism.”
“But there’s a plan in place,” Dad insisted. “We’ll abstain from judging you.”
“In the meantime”—I tightened my fingers around the phone, dreading Mom’s caveat—“I’d like to see some more investment in your daily logs. I hope you’re not losing focus—Nancy reports that you’ve been out more.”
“Quiz bowl and school and my science project.” There was panic in my voice, but maybe it wasn’t apparent nine thousand miles away, because they accepted that explanation and ended the call.
It was early, but I fled like their words were chasing me. When I passed Nancy in the kitchen, she said, “You’re going out.”
It was a statement, not a question, but I stammered excuses anyway, only to have her shrug. “I’m washing sheets and towels today. I’ll grab yours.”
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